


The marks on our skins

by Salambo06



Series: Fic Giveaway [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Declaration of Love, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, POV John, POV Sherlock, Scars, pinning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:57:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8321824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salambo06/pseuds/Salambo06
Summary: Scar (noun)

a mark left (as in the skin) by the healing of injured tissue
a : a mark left on a stem or branch by a fallen leaf or harvested fruit. b : cicatrix 2
a mark or indentation resulting from damage or wear
a lasting moral or emotional injury <one of his men had been killed…in a manner that left a scar upon his mind — H. G. Wells>

  a soulmate au where only your soulmate can kiss your scars away





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hotsmugstache (MadeInBerlin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadeInBerlin/gifts).



> Hi everyone!
> 
> So this is the sixth of ten fics for my latest Fic Giveaway, and this one is for Hotmugstache who requested a Soulmate AU  
> Thank you so much for this prompt, and I hope you'll like it :)
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Pauline
> 
> Thank you to [Heather](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/) for her job as a beta !  
> [My Tumblr](http://johnlockfulfillment.tumblr.com/)  
> 

“You can’t keep running after suspects like that,” John sighed, finishing stitching up Sherlock’s cut on his arm, “You’ll get stabbed one day.”

“Already have,” Sherlock replied absently. “Five years ago, Lestrade went mad on me.”

“I bet he did,” John said with a smile, cleaning the blood. “I would have.”

He caught Sherlock smiling down at him and John averted his eyes. It was still strange, even after all this time, to be so close to one of Sherlock scars. John could see two smaller marks higher on his bicep, and he couldn’t help but wonder. What would happen if he kissed them? Would they disappear? Would they remain there, old memories of a forgotten time?

“Are you finished?” Sherlock asked, startling him.

“Yes, sorry,” John replied, stepping away as he stood up. “Should heal just fine.”

“As always,” Sherlock said, already putting his shirt back on.

John smiled at him again, putting away the bandage and needle. They had done this so many times he couldn’t recall each and everyone of them, but still, it never stopped to make John feel just a little uneasy. Scars weren’t a taboo anymore, but a lot of people still preferred to have theirs kept private for their soulmate when they finally met them. That was one way of recognizing those who were still searching, their arms and legs hidden when they were out in public.

“I think I’ll head back to Barts for the rest of the afternoon,” Sherlock announced once they were back in the kitchen. “I need to finish examining the bodies before Molly gets rid of them.”

“Sure,” John replied, already planning to finish typing up their latest case. “Back for diner?”

Sherlock nodded, already putting on his scarf and coat, “Most likely, yes.”

John smiled, both of them remaining standing for several seconds before Sherlock turned around and walked out. John waited until he heard the front door close before going to search for his laptop.

 _One more scar_ , he thought with a sad smile.

____

John was seven when he had caught his sister cutting her own hand in the kitchen.

“Harry! What are you doi-”

“Relax, Johnny,” Harry had smiled, the blood spilling on the floor, “I know what I’m doing. This girl arrived in my class two weeks ago and I’m certain she’s my soulmate. I just need a scar to prove it, that’s all.”

“That’s insane.”

“Easy for you to say, you’ve already have three different scars,” she had replied bitterly.

“They’re all your fault,” John had remarked, making her laugh. “Besides, it’s stupid. Who says she’s going to kiss your scar in the first place?”

“I’ll find a way,” Harry had assured him. “I’ll find a way.”

____

“Really, this chasing after one’s soulmate is getting even more ridiculous each day,” Sherlock snapped, making everyone jump with surprise.

He had been silent for the past seven minutes, lost in his Mind Palace, and everyone had gone back to sorting out the clues and reports while waiting for Sherlock’s break through. John had even begun writing down some more details about the case for his blog entry. “What do you mean?” He asked, following Sherlock quickly as he stormed out of Lestrade’s office. “Wait!”

John heard Lestrade and Donovan sigh behind him as they followed, and they all made it in the elevator before Sherlock had the time to close the door. “Sherlock?”

“Mrs. Fuller had been married for forty years, John, and all the signs show a rather happy marriage,” Sherlock began, fingers tapping against his coat. “She loved her husband, despite the fact that they both still had their scars. They were not soulmates but didn’t care.”

“Right, we established that already,” Lestrade remarked.

Sherlock ignored him, turning to face John properly, “Yet, between last week and yesterday, Mrs. Fuller met her soulmate and managed to get rid of three different scars, small ones surely, or else her husband would have noticed. Which he did anyway, obviously.”

“What do you mean she met her soulmate?” Donovan asked, frowning.

“When we were interrogating her husband,” Sherlock replied, glancing at her before looking back at John, “Remember how he kept looking down at his wife’s body? His eyes were fixed on her wrist, just her wrist, why?”

Silence, and then Lestrade, “There was nothing on her wrist.”

“Exactly, nothing at all.”

John smiled, “He was searching for scars.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed out, smiling back, and John barely restrained himself from reaching for him. “Scars that had disappeared.”

“Kissed away,” Lestrade murmured. “The husband did it.”

“Jealousy,” Sherlock said, already turning back to look at the closed door. “Case solved.”

“Wait, you need to-” Lestrade began.

“He will confess as soon as you ask him,” Sherlock cut him, “He cared for her, he’s feeling guilty. I have more important things to do right now, Lestrade.”

“Fine but I’ll need your deposition,” the DI sighed, letting them both get out of the elevator as the door opened, “Tomorrow.”

John nodded, “Promise,” before the doors were closing again.

Sherlock was already outside when John caught up with him, mumbling to himself, “They had lived for forty years without their soulmate and were happy, John. But she couldn’t resist, she had to know and throw her life away. Idiot.”

“Everyone would like to know,” John replied before thinking about it.

“Wrong,” Sherlock replied, and John was brought back to that first dinner at Angelo’s. “Soulmates are a fantasy, John. You can do perfectly fine without one, you should know that.”

 _What if I was yours?_ John thought, biting his tongue. “Back home, then?” he asked, not waiting for Sherlock’s response to hail a cab.

____

John had stitched up exactly twenty wounds since he had moved in with Sherlock. Sixteen of them had left a scar.

Plus, he had caught sight of ten more Sherlock had from before they met during the fourteen months he’s been living with the man.

That’s twenty-six scars he’s aware of.

John dreamt about each and every one of them every night.

____

John opened the door silently, not sure whether Sherlock had gone to bed or waited up for him. With the case they had just solved, John knew he was going to need at least seven hours of sleep, even if Sherlock assured him of the contrary each time. Still, the flat was deadly quiet, and it didn’t take long for John to catch sight of the sleeping figure on the couch. He smiled, hanging his coat up silently before walking to the sofa.

Sherlock always seemed so peaceful like this, asleep and unguarded. It was a rare sight, and John had learned to appreciate those moments. He watched him for long seconds, fingers itching to touch, to stroke. It would be so easy, just for a second, to pretend he was allowed to lie by Sherlock’s side and hold him while he slept. So easy.

Breathing out deeply, John was about to turn back and head up to his bedroom when he noticed the small scar on Sherlock’s ankle. His pyjamas pants were just high enough for it to almost taunt John, and before he could realise what he was doing, John was already kneeling by the sofa.

Sherlock would know. That much was certain, but at the moment, John found he didn’t care. He had been wondering for too long, and he wasn’t sure he could continue living with Sherlock and not _know_.

It was just a small scar. So very small, barely an inch long.

John kissed it, soft and slowly, making sure not to wake Sherlock. He forced himself not to linger, and barely ten or twenty seconds after he pulled away, the mark began to fade away.

_My soulmate._

John was out of the flat in less than a minute.

____

Sherlock never mentioned his missing scar.

He had to know, but had apparently chosen to ignore it entirely.

John did his best to do the same, a painful knot in his chest each time he noticed Sherlock’s eyes on him.

____

It was late at night, or maybe early in the morning, John couldn’t be certain. They had been out for hours, trying to hide behind two dumpsters and remaining quiet despite the constant shivering. At least John had thought about his scarf, or else he wouldn’t have survived this long out in the cold. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, of course.

“You’re making too much noise,” he whispered, turning to face John.

“Can’t help it,” John replied, rubbing his hands together, “I can’t feel my feet anymore, or my arms, or my hands!”

“It’s not that cold,” Sherlock remarked.

“You’re the one with the warm coat here,” John said in a breath, another shiver running through him. “Oh, god, how long do we have to stand here again?”

“They should leave the club soon enough now,” Sherlock replied, still looking at him with frowning eyes.

“Listen, I can’t help the shivering, ok?”

“Give me your hands,” Sherlock murmured, taking off his gloves, “quickly,” he added as John was too busy staring at him silently.

“Wha- Oh.”

Sherlock was closing both of his hands around John’s, warming them up with a small but efficient friction, “Come closer,” he whispered, making room for John to snuggle close to him.” Body heat.”

John nodded, too busy trying to control himself. Another shiver ran down his spine, but he was quite certain it wasn’t because of the cold this time. They remained like this for what seemed like hours, John unable to move or speak as Sherlock did his best to share his own warmth. Yet, the moment John’s fingers began to rub over a familiar scar under Sherlock’s middle finger, they both froze.

John forced himself not to look away as he started to stroke the mark with the tip of his finger, “Sherlock, I-”

A loud bang made them both jump, “I NEVER WANT TO SEE EITHER OF YOU AGAIN! OUT!”

John’s eyes were back on the front door of the pub and Sherlock was already getting up, his phone in hand, “Quickly, we need to follow them.”

John was up and ready in less than a second. Another time, he thought, he’ll talk to Sherlock  another time.

____

It’s a funny thing, really.

Once you’re dead, your scars can’t be kissed away anymore. They’re the proof you’ve spent a lifetime alone, unable to find the person you were meant to love and grow old with. Proof, right there, on your bare skin.

Sherlock still has all of his scars.

They’re right in front of John’s eyes.

Funny, right?


	2. Sherlock

“Have you showed him your scars yet, brother dear?”

Sherlock froze, his violin tucked under his chin and his hand hanging in the air, “Why would I do that?”

He heard Mycroft move behind him, “In the past sixteen days, Doctor Watson has moved in here and is now following you on every case. He only talks about you on his blog, and you two are rarely seen without the other.”

“Is there a point to all this?” Sherlock asked, going back to playing.

“One could, and would be right to assume our good doctor has erased all of your scars.”

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes for the briefest of second before setting his violin down on the table again. He turned, glaring at Mycroft, “Shouldn’t you be busy, I don’t know, running the world or something?”

“Oh Sherlock,” Mycroft smiled and it only made Sherlock tense even more. “You are so obvious, in the end.”

Sherlock ignored him, walking to his bedroom without another glance.

“Give my best to Doctor Watson when he comes back,” Mycroft called one last time before walking out of the flat at the same time Sherlock slammed his bedroom door. Only then did Sherlock allow himself to take a deep breath, closing his eyes again as he leant against the door. How could Mycroft, even after all these years, still manage to upset him that much with just a few words.

It wasn’t as if Sherlock hadn’t wondered already. Years after having promised himself he’d never look or even think about his soulmate, Sherlock was now unable to spend even a second without wondering _what if?_

“Sherlock? What that your brother I just saw come out of the flat?”

Sherlock smiled, the same warm feeling spreading through his chest as John’s voice echoed outside his room.

“Sherlock? Are you in- Oh.” John stepped away, startled as Sherlock opened his door. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Sherlock hurried to reply. “Did you get the milk?”

“I did,” John smiled, “And I’m guessing it’s not to drink?”

Sherlock’s smile widened, “Why would I drink it?”

John shook his head, walking back to the kitchen, “No reason, not reason at all.”

____

Sherlock was five when his mother had made him sit down at the kitchen table, looking all too serious for a cosy afternoon at home, “Sherlock,” she had said, “We need to talk about scars and soulmates.”

“Mycroft told me already,” Sherlock replied, frowning.

Mummy smiled, shaking her head, “I’m sure he did, but you should hear it from me too.”

“Why?”

“Because your brother has a tendency to deform facts to meet his own end,” his mother replied calmly and Sherlock was about to defend his big brother when she shushed him with one finger, “Each person alive is meant to meet another person and only one. That person is called a soulmate, someone to share your life with.”

“Like you and daddy?” Sherlock asked, leaning closer as he listened with great attention. That was not what Mycroft had told him, not at all.

“Yes, love,” Mummy smiled. “When you meet this person, you’ll know it when they kiss your scars. A soulmate's kiss makes your scars fade away.”

Sherlock frowned, “But that’s not possible.”

Mummy ruffled his hair, “You’ve been reading again, young boy.” Sherlock smiled, shrugging. “Think of it as something magical, something that can’t be properly explained.”

Sherlock nodded, already determined to find a logical explanation to the entire thing. “But Mummy, I don’t have scars.”

“You’ll get some one day, love, don’t worry,” Mummy assured him, her hand now resting on his shoulder. “Do you have any questions about this?”

Sherlock thought for a moment, “Does everyone meet their soulmate?”

“Some people don’t, love, but they’ll find someone else, someone who cares and loves them very much anyway.” She squeezed his shoulder, “But I’m not worried, your soulmate would be someone wonderful and very, very lucky to have you.”

____

Even if John wasn’t his soulmate, Sherlock was perfectly fine with spending the rest of his life with him.

____

“I blame you for all these people coming to us to find their soulmate, John,” Sherlock declared one afternoon, looking at the window where their latest client was walking away.

“What are you talking about?” John asked, looking up from his computer.

“When I started taking cases, I made it clear on my website I would not help anyone to find their soulmate, and yet, here we are!”

“She was only worried, that’s all,” John smiled, “Lots of people are.”

“I don’t care about people,” Sherlock sighed and he caught John rolling his eyes. “I don’t.”

“If you say so,” John relied with a small smile. “Still, I don’t see why it’s my fault.”

Sherlock turned away from the window, coming to sit on his chair and waiting for John to close his computer before saying, “You are a romantic, John.”

“You said that already, yes.”

Sherlock ignored his remark, “You romanticize every case you write down on your blog, and people now believe I am more accessible, more inclined to help them find _the person their heart desires more than anything_.”

John laughed, “Alright, that woman maybe went too far, but-”

“There’s no but, John. They’re all so boring,” Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes and throwing his head back. He inhaled deeply, sorting out his last results from his current experiment, but he could still feel John’s eyes on him and the silent question hanging in the air. “What is it?”

He heard John clear his throat, shifting on his chair, “I know you said- I mean, did you ever look for your soulmate?”

Sherlock remained silent for long seconds, “Why would I?”

“You always want to know everything, why not this?”

Sherlock smiled, opening his eyes again and looking back at him. John held his stare, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “Soulmates are a myth, John, a pretext for happiness. When clients come in, desperate to find their soulmate, they’re only trying to fit into society, to find a person they don’t actually need. They are lots of people who never met their soulmate, John, and they are just fine.” He stopped, the air around them much colder all the sudden. “Why would I want to search for mine?”

John looked down at his hands, a quiet sound escaping, not quite a laugh, “Right, yeah.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what he hated most right now, the way John seemed to refuse to look back at him again, or himself.

____

Six months ago, Sherlock had called John and jumped from a roof.

He had thought he could do it, could stay focused, destroy the rest of Moriarty’s web and go home. But there was still this missing scar on his ankle, and even far away from home, he found himself unable to look away from his unmarked skin.

 _When I come back_ , he thought again and again, _when I come back._

Of course it had to be John.

_When I come back._

_____

Mary was here. Again.

John had went to buy them some coffee for the rest of their stake out, and Sherlock was now forced to be alone with her. It was not that he didn’t like her, but there was something in the way Mary smiled at him sometimes that made Sherlock uncomfortable. It was as if she knew, knew that Sherlock had planned to say something, to declare the feelings he had kept to himself for too long that evening. Some days, he would catch her staring at him from the other side of the room, her thin lips stretched into a small smile and her eyes playful, as if it was all a game. Some days, Sherlock wondered if she was doing it on purpose, rubbing her relationship with John in his nose each chance she’d got.

Maybe Sherlock didn’t like her, after all. He didn’t care. John did, he loved her even, and was going to marry her.

“Oh Sherlock, by the way,” Mary said suddenly, making Sherlock jump with surprise, “I was wondering if you had chosen your suit?”

Sherlock frowned, “John must have told you we went last week?”

Mary remained silent for a second before laughing, “Oh yes, sorry, I keep forgetting things these days. You got matching ones, right?”

Sherlock looked back at their suspect, “Yes.”

“John said you chose for the both of you,” Mary continued, clearly not planning to stop talking about the wedding.

“I recommended certain tailors, and John liked one of them, yes.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, desperately trying to push away the memories of John trying on suit after suit and asking for his opinion. Sherlock had done his best, giving precise, short answers and not once thinking about asking John to cancel everything. Not once. Really.

“I always thought only grooms wore matching suits for their wedding,” Marry said after a moment, the knot in Sherlock's chest tightening.  “Not best men.”

“I-”

Sherlock stopped as Mary turned to face him properly, something dark and dangerous in her eyes, “You do know he’s mine, right Sherlock?”

It took five and half seconds for Sherlock to reply, his voice only a whisper, “He’s not your soulmate.”

Mary smiled, “I know and he knows too. Still, he asked me to marry him, he asked me to spend the rest of his life with him.” She glanced back at the road, watching as John was walking back towards them. “I only wanted to make things clear, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked over at John too, heart pounding and alarms ringing inside his head. Still he remained frozen in place as John handed Mary her coffee, standing close as she whispered something in his ear.

John had been his to keep, to love, to care for, once. Not anymore.

 _Not anymore_.

____

Thirty-eight days later, as he watched Dr. Watson and his wife, Sherlock realised not all scars left a visible mark.


	3. Us

_ 4 months later _

 

**\- John -**

 

“This is ridiculous, Sherlock!” John sighed, slowly getting more and more annoyed at Sherlock’s childish behavior, “Just take off your shirt and let me look at it, for God sake!”

“I told you, I’m fine,” Sherlock replied, already fleeing to his room but John was fast enough to block his way to the door. “Move away, John.”

“Not until you let me look at your cut,” John repeated for the tenth time.

Sherlock turned around, making a quick escape to the bathroom but John had the time to grab the door before he could slam it, “What the hell are you playing at?!”

“Leave me alone,” Sherlock replied, his tone harsh and just on the edge of desperate. “I can take care of myself.”

John felt it build inside him, an anger he had kept to himself for too long exploding, “Oh yes, like you did for two bloody years!”

Sherlock turned, staring at him, mouth hanging open in loud breath, “John, you-”

“If you don’t need m- don’t need my help anymore, you could have just told me and I wouldn’t have bothered to stay here because my fucking wife shot you in the chest!” John’s fist slammed against the door, his eyes shut tightly as he forced himself to breathe out slowly. It wasn’t fair, to either Sherlock or even himself to twist the knife into the wound like this. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I-”

“You don’t have to stay,” Sherlock cut him off, eyes staring into the void behind John’s shoulder and the same desperation in his voice, clearer this time, and John felt his stomach drop. “You are free to go.”

“Sherlock, I don’t want to leave,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“You are perfectly right,” Sherlock continued, “I did just fine while I was away, without you or anyone else for that matter.” He turned again, facing away from John. “In fact, you should leave now.”

“No,” John said firmly. “I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work.”

“I’m not doi-”

“Stop.”

John took one step closer, reaching for him but found himself with his hand hanging in the air, frozen. Three months. Three months he was back living in 221B, taking cases, taking care of Sherlock and going upstairs to bed every night, and that was all it took for John to realise how much he had missed this. How much he craved for this life, for Sherlock, right there next to him.

“Let me see the cut, Sherlock,” he said again, his arm falling back to his side. He saw the shivers raking over Sherlock’s body, and stepped closer again.  He didn’t stop himself this time, his hand closing around Sherlock’s wrist, “Let me.”

“John, don’t,” Sherlock breathed out, his head falling forward in defeat and John’s chest tightened. “Please.”

“Let me see,” he repeated, not sure what he was talking about anymore. He only knew that Sherlock was hiding something, something that had forced him to push him away, and John couldn’t walk out of this room and not  _ know _ . “Let me help you.”

Sherlock’s shoulders were shaking, his hands clenched into fists by his sides and John let his own fingers stroke the soft skin of his wrist. He had missed this, the  _ touching _ . In all the years they had spent together, living side by side, John had learned to take advantage of these casual touches, those small moments where he could get away with it. God, he had missed this. “Sherlock,” he murmured, fingers sliding lower until he could hold Sherlock’s fist. “What is it?”

“You’re angry,” Sherlock replied, not relaxing at all under John’s touch.

“I was, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“You’ll be even more angry if-” Sherlock stopped, letting out a deep breath.

“I won’t,” John murmured, “I pro-”

Sherlock pulled his hand away and John was about to take a step back, apologizing when he realised Sherlock was unbuttoning his shirt. John could only see the muscles of his back and shoulders working slowly until the piece of clothing began to fall over his shoulder and- “Oh, god,” John gapsed.

There was a large, red scar starting at Sherlock’s nape and down onto his back, more and more being revealed as the shirt finally fell on the bathroom floor. There were many, many more, and John feared for a moment he would be sick. His legs were barely holding him up, his breathing ragged as he took in the damaged skin of Sherlock’s back. How could he have let this happen, he should have known, should have realised what was happening, should have-

“You’re angry,” Sherlock said again, his voice barely a murmur in the quiet room.

“No, n-,” John choked on his words, swallowing with difficulty. “I-”

“They don’t hurt,” Sherlock said, as if to reassure him, and John shook his head, knowing far too well how painful wounds are that left such marks. “I don’t fee-  _ oh _ .”

John wasn’t sure what he was doing exactly, one finger tracing the longest scar slowly. He didn’t care anymore, not about Mary, not about the shooting, not about the lies. Just Sherlock, here and hurt, and  _ his _ .

Before he could stop himself, John took a deep breath and leant in.

 

**\- Sherlock -**

 

Sherlock knew exactly which scar John was kissing. 

A long shiver ran through him, the feeling of John’s soft lips against his skin making his knees weak and his heart beat much too fast. He felt a warmth spreading where John’s lips had left a kiss, down the thickest, ugliest scar marking his back, and for the first time, Sherlock felt the magic of a soulmate’s kiss.

“John,” he breathed out, not sure what he wanted to ask, wanted to say other than  _ don’t stop, please don’t ever stop _ . He felt John step closer, his hands coming to rest on his hips and another shiver took over him, “ _ John _ .”

He wasn’t sure how long they remained like this, John’s lips kissing his scar again and again so very softly, but by the time John had pulled away and whispered a quiet,  _ “All gone”,  _ Sherlock’s legs had given up on him and he fell to the floor with a broken sob. John followed him down, both arms locked around his chest and his head now pressed against his nape. They didn’t say a word, simply remaining there, close and shaking, and Sherlock wasn’t sure he could ever speak again. He felt John leave small, tender kisses over his nape and shoulder, not on any scars, barely a brush of lips really, “Sherlock.”

Sherlock shut his eyes tighter, opening his mouth to reply but not a sound came out. He slowly raised his own hands to cover John’s on his stomach and kept them there. He hoped John would understand, would never leave.

“Sherlock,” John whispered again, “did-” he stopped and Sherlock felt him exhale loudly against his skin. “Did you know?” He finally asked, his voice almost too quiet.

Sherlock swallowed with difficulty, nodding and he felt John tighten his grip around him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock wanted to tell him he had nothing to be sorry about, he was the one that had ruined everything, the one that had went away and let him believe his soulmate had died. It was all his fault, all his fault.

“I wasn’t sure you-” John began but stopped again and Sherlock could feel him shiver against him. “You always said you didn’t need one, didn’t want one, and I thought we could at least live together, that I still had you by my side, but then-”

Silence again.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, throat dry and his heart beating furiously. “I never thought I’d want-” Deep breath. “You came and you just took all the place in my head, and I couldn’t-”

“Shhh, calm down, it’s alright,” John said softly, and Sherlock realised he was on the verge of crying again. He focused on his breathing, on John’s chest pressed against his back, on his hands, warm and comforting against his bare stomach. “Everything’s alright now. I’m here, I’m here.”

“John, please,” Sherlock begged, hopping John would understand.

“Yes,” John whispered, “Come on.”

He helped Sherlock up, keeping them pressed together until Sherlock was able to stand on his legs and only then did John make him turn around, hands trailing down to his hips. Sherlock opened his eyes again, staring down at John’s open and trusting face, a warm smile on his lips and tears forming in his eyes, “We’re a couple of idiots aren’t we?” he asked, his smile widening as a chuckle escaped Sherlock’s lips.

They remained like this for long seconds, looking at each other, their breathing echoing in the quiet room, and Sherlock was starting to wonder if he would ever be able to move again.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, his eyes dropping to Sherlock’s lips. “Can I?”

Sherlock was ninety percent sure the broken sound that filled the room came from him as he nodded again, his entire body shivering as John raised himself high enough to seal their lips together. It was like nothing he had ever imagined. John’s mouth was gentle, warm and firm against his, and Sherlock lost himself in his taste entirely. Neither of them thought about deepening the kiss, and for some very long minutes, they kissed and kissed again, light laughter filling the room as Sherlock began to realise who he was kissing and what it all meant.

“John,” he said between two kisses, John’s lips now brushing his jaw, “Can we- I mean, I want to see your- If that’s-”

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” John cut him off, pulling away just enough to look up at him, “Perfectly fine.”

Sherlock stared at him in silence, breathing out slowly before saying, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“I don’t know either,” John said, smiling, “But I can fairly say I’ve wanted this for so long, I can barely process it’s truly happening.”

Sherlock smiled, “You’re here.”

John nodded before stealing another kiss, “We’ll figure it out, together.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed out, his lips lingering against John’s.

“Bedroom?” John asked and Sherlock was letting him pull them both towards his own bedroom, threading his fingers with John’s slowly. John went to the bed directly, stopping them both at the bottom and staring up at Sherlock again, asking, “Alright?”

Sherlock nodded, knowing he was at his most vulnerable here, but trusting John completely, “Yes.”

“Do you want to?” John asked, placing Sherlock’s fingers on his shirt, and Sherlock nodded again, removing the piece of clothing slowly. Both of their breathing was a bit more ragged now, and Sherlock’s hands were shaking when he finally let the shirt fall on the floor. He had seen John shirtless before but never that close, and it all suddenly felt much more  _ real _ . “Go ahead,” John smiled, and he kissed Sherlock’s hand before putting it at the center of his chest.

Immediately Sherlock was exploring the compact but soft skin of John’s chest, the few hairs and marks there, licking his lips as he realised he could kiss them all away. He was the only who could.  _ John’s soulmate. _ His finger found the scar on John’s shoulder, the skin so damaged there and yet so beautiful.

“I’d like to keep that one,” John whispered, and Sherlock looked back at him.

“Yes,” he breathed out, “It brought you to me.” Sherlock leant down, lips brushing the scar in a ghost of a kiss, and he felt John’s hand around his waist again.

“It did,” John replied, a smile in his voice, and Sherlock pulled away again. “There are many more you can kiss away,” he said.

“Only me,” Sherlock breathed out before he could stop himself but John was still smiling at him, stepping closer and whispering against his lips.

“Only you.”

 

**\- John -**

 

Sherlock Holmes was kissing him, and John had never felt so complete in his entire life. He wasn’t sure what he ever done to deserve such a brilliant, fascinating, complex man to be his soulmate, but John was ready to never let him go ever again. He still couldn’t believe Sherlock had known all this time, known they were meant for each other, meant to grow old together, and still hadn’t said anything. They would need to talk, to explain themselves and finally say all the things they had kept to themselves for too long, but right now, John wanted to make this man  _ his _ , finally.

He wanted to erase each and every scar on Sherlock’s back, wanted to erase every trace of torture, of pain off his back and replace them with memories of soft caresses and heated kisses. He nipped at Sherlock’s lips, parting them to lick into his mouth and he felt him shiver in his arms. It went without saying how inexperienced Sherlock was, he had half-confessed it years ago, both of them having drunk too much and sharing whispered anecdotes by the fire. John hadn’t pushed, and they had never talked about it since. John was ready to take all the time in the world to make Sherlock discover each caress, each shiver, each breathless touch.

“John,” Sherlock panted when they parted, his mouth hanging open in ragged breath.

John nodded, knowing exactly what Sherlock wanted, and took a step backward, “This one,” he smiled, pointing to a small mark above his navel, “I fell when I was a kid, I believe this is my first scar actually.”

Sherlock was staring at, “Can I?”

John smiled before nodding, but his breath caught in his throat as Sherlock fell to his knees in front of him. He licked his lips, looking down at him. How many times had he dreamt of this? Shaking his head, John forced himself to focus on something else, on the feeling of Sherlock’s breath against his abdomen, on his lips as they brushed his scar, on his kiss, warm and hesitant.

“It’s disappearing,” Sherlock breathed out when he pulled away. “I know it’s illogical, and that skin can’t heal without leaving a trace, but this is fascinating.”

“Is it?” John smiled, falling in love just a little more.

“Yes,” Sherlock continued, his fingers brushing the now markless skin in front of him, “absolutely fascinating.”

John laughed as Sherlock kissed the same spot again before kissing his way lower toward another scar, “What about this one?” he asked in a breath and John looked down at him again.

“Bike accident,” he explained, smiling at Sherlock’s questioning eyes. “Go ahead.”

By the time Sherlock had kissed away all of the small scars baring John’s chest and back, there was no way to deny just how aroused John was. He felt Sherlock’s stare on his crotch, neither of them saying anything for a long moment before John forced him up to his feet again, “Don’t worry about it, it’ll go away.”

Sherlock bit his lower lip, eyes glancing down again, “I-”, he stopped, averting his eyes.

“Tell me,” John whispered, cupping his face.

Sherlock closed his eyes, exhaling loudly before saying, “I know you have four different scars on your legs. Three were acquired during a case, the other one during your training.”

“That’s right, yes,” John smiled.

Sherlock looked back at him, his voice barely a whisper as he said, “I want to see them too.”

John’s breath caught, his arousal building, but he took Sherlock’s hand in his and replied calmly, “Sherlock, love, this is not just about scars.” Sherlock nodded, remaining silent and John continued carefully, “It is obvious it is something I want, very much so, but not if you’re unsure, if you’re not absolutely certain that’s something you want to.”

Sherlock bit his lower lip again, eyes searching his face, “I want it, I want you.”

John smiled, unable to resist the urge to kiss him and did so for long seconds, “Let’s see where it takes us,” he whispered, and pressed them closer together. Sherlock was the one to seal their lips this time, the caress almost too soft, and John felt his chest warming up with both arousal and love for this brilliant man. It took John a moment to realise Sherlock was all but leaning against him, all of his weight supported by John’s arms around his waist, and he smiled into their kiss, “Lie down?”

Sherlock nodded, refusing to let get of him apparently as John pushed him down on the bed. He crawled on top of him, staring down at Sherlock’s face as he scooted up the bed until his head was resting on the pillow. “Trousers?” John asked in a whisper and Sherlock nodded again, his fingers tentatively brushing John’s chest.  John smiled at him, leaning down for a quick kiss before straightening up and rolling next to Sherlock. “You or me?”

Sherlock turned to face him, licking his lower lip, “Me.” John’s smile widened, waiting for Sherlock to reach for his trousers before giving an encouraging nod, “Go ahead.” Sherlock unzipped him slowly, sliding John’s trousers down just as slowly and John raised his hips just enough for cloth to fall to his feet. He felt Sherlock’s eyes on his thighs and legs, and John couldn’t help but pant as he noticed Sherlock’s red cheeks. He was getting aroused, watching him, and John wanted to keep that moment locked inside his head forever.

“John,” Sherlock murmured, eyes back on his, “my turn.”

John laughed, cupping Sherlock’s face and giving him another kiss, “Impatient?” He teased, Sherlock rolled his eyes but smiled against his lips, and John couldn’t hold it back any longer, “I love you,” he whispered, “I love you.”

He found his arms full of Sherlock again, Sherlock’s head buried against his neck as he said over and over,  _ I love you, I love you, I love you _ . Before he could stop himself, John was kissing the scar right under his nose, thick and somehow still red, right there on Sherlock’s shoulder. He kissed and kissed until he could feel the mark fade away along with any memory of it. He roamed his hands over the ones still marking the skin of Sherlock’s back, promising himself he’d make them all go away someday. Soon.

“John,” Sherlock breathed against his neck, pressing them even closer and all the air was being sucked out of John’s lungs when he felt an hardening erection against his own. “I want-”

“Oh, god,” John moaned, sliding his hands down over Sherlock’s arse. “Yes, yes.” He pulled away just enough to quickly unzip and slide down Sherlock’s own trousers, forcing himself to go back to a slower pace as he stared at Sherlock’s body in front of him. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, and he felt Sherlock shiver.

“You,” Sherlock said, smiling and suddenly seeming much more comfortable. John frowned, but Sherlock was kissing him again, “I need you.”

John poured all of his love into the kiss and rolled Sherlock onto his back again, settling between his legs and thrusting up against him, once.

 

**\- Sherlock -**

 

Sherlock threw his head back, his fingers gripping at John’s back as he let out a long, deep moan, “John!” He had no idea what he was doing, no idea if it was supposed to feel like that. Stealing all the air, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, but Sherlock loved every second of it. He loved the way John’s chest was pressed against his, loved the way their legs seemed to tangle together naturally, loved the way John’s panting breath felt against his lips. Sherlock loved, loved,  _ loved _ .

“Oh christ, Sherlock,” John moaned, rocking his hips, their still clothed erections rubbing against each other, “You feel amazing.”

Sherlock wanted to speak, to tell him to never stop, never leave this bed again or he might not be able to breathe properly anymore, but only a broken sound escaped his lips. He locked one leg around John’s waist, canting his hips higher and moaning loudly again when he felt John’s erection slide lower, much lower. “John,  _ John _ , I need…”

“God, yes,” John panted, hands already sliding down between their chest and hooking under Sherlock’s pants. “Yeah?” He asked in a breath and Sherlock forced himself to keep his eyes open and fixed on John’s as he nodded.

John leant down to kiss him again before removing both of their pants quickly. He kissed his way up Sherlock’s left leg, lips soft and hungry, and Sherlock was certain he was losing his mind. He threaded his fingers through John’s hair as one of his kisses made the scar right above his knee disappear. He couldn’t even remember when or how he had gotten it. It didn’t matter, didn’t matter all because John was breathing in the creek of his thigh, hot and wet, and Sherlock arched off the bed.

“ _ John.” _

“I want you so much,” John gasped, “love you so much.”

Sherlock stared down at him, his own erection hard and John’s lips right there, and- “ _ Oh! _ ”

John only kissed over the head of his erection once, a quick, heated kiss, but Sherlock felt the arousal grow and grow inside his belly. He thrusted into nothing, his erection back against his stomach, and John was settling between his legs again. Sherlock watched John’s own erection, mouth hanging open and his breathing ragged. He was thicker than him, and Sherlock wanted to  _ touch _ .

“John, please,” he moaned, reaching for him, and John quickly lowered himself on top of him again. The friction of their bare erections made Sherlock’s shiver, a long tremor that took over him entirely. He was seeking John’s lips without thinking about it, letting him swallow down all of his moans and whimpers as they began to rock together.

John’s fingers slid in his hair, not pulling, but right there, and Sherlock wished it could never end. They could remain like this for hours, for days, together, hot, soft and  _ brilliant _ . But he could already feel the first signs of his approaching climax, their movements becoming more and more erratic.

“I’ve got you,” John panted again and again, “I’ve got you, I love you, I’ve got you.”

“John, John, I-” Sherlock threw his head back, his entire body arching off the bed as he came. He could hear nothing but John’s panting breath, feel nothing but John’s hot body on top of him. John, everywhere.

He came back to himself as John’s orgasm hit, crying out his name and burying his head against his neck. Sherlock held onto him, wrapping his limbs around him and whispering words he couldn’t even himself couldn’t properly understand. Before he could realise what was happening, Sherlock fell asleep with the warmth of John’s body pressed against his.

Soft kisses placed over his shoulder woke him up, and Sherlock immediately reached for John, pressed behind him. He found John’s hand on his hip and he laced their fingers before breathing out slowly. “How long?” He asked quietly.

“I woke up about two minutes ago,” John said, his smile obvious, and Sherlock pressed back against him. “You fell asleep quickly, and didn’t even stir when I cleaned us both up,” another kiss. “Night has fallen already.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, glancing at the window, “Oh.” He hadn’t intended to fall asleep in the first place, and he couldn’t help but worry about what was going to happen now. They didn’t have the chance to talk, and clearly John would want to.  _ God _ , he still had a wife.

“Sherlock, love, you’re tensing up,” John whispered, kissing his nape. Sherlock allowed himself a moment before rolling around in John’s arms so he could face him. “Hey,” John smiled, leaning down for a kiss and Sherlock felt his own lips stretch into a similar smile. “What is it?”

“Mary,” Sherlock breathed out, almost too quietly.

“What about her?” John asked, still smiling, and Sherlock didn’t reply. Surely he know what he meant, and they couldn’t ignore it. He felt John’s fingers brush the still healing scar on the middle of his chest. “Do you know why I didn’t kiss this one away?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“It’s a reminder,” John whispered, “a reminder that I almost lost you again, almost let you slip away again because I was too afraid of my own feelings, too afraid about ruining everything. It’s a reminder that I need to stop holding back, stop hiding from you.” He stopped, kissing him, and Sherlock felt his chest expand with warm happiness. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and I’m going to make sure you know it every day until we are old and bickering about who needs to clean the kitchen.”

“You, obviously,” Sherlock replied with a smile, and John laughed softly. They remained silent for a long moment, staring at each other, John’s fingers still tracing Sherlock’s bullet hole. “You want that? With me?”

John smiled, “I want everything with you. You’re my soulmate, my best friend, my lover.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Romantic.”

John leant for another kiss, laughing, “You love it.”

Well, Sherlock wasn’t going to argue about that.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comment are really appreciated :)
> 
> [I do fic commission now](http://johnlockfulfillment.tumblr.com/tagged/fic-commission)


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